


If I Had the Time to Tell You Everything, I Would

by 2ofacrime24



Series: Endings [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Deathfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:59:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ofacrime24/pseuds/2ofacrime24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Apocalypse takes away more than just lives, but time too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Had the Time to Tell You Everything, I Would

**Author's Note:**

> Written from Dean's prespective. Companion piece: Thankful.

Sometimes the world moves too fast while you’re stuck, trying to process simply your breath fanning out into the cold frigid air, a cloud that proves your existence, proves that you’re alive. The world spins, it tilts and changes scenery like a production at a theater while you move sluggishly through space, your eyes concentrating on one spot, on one constant and your hands reach out to grasp, to catch, to hold, to feel. Everything moves too fast while you yell at your brain for being so god damned slow and to hurry the fuck up and the next thing you know you’re staggering dangerously to that spot, your arms out stretched and your hands grappling until you’re on your knees clutching an angel to your chest.

The blood is what you feel first, not his stupid tan trench coat, starched and stiff as hell because he doesn’t understand how to do the laundry the human way. Not his hair which is soft and silky and so cliched but you still can’t help but love the way it sticks up at odd angles and looks perfect atop his head, his hair which helps make him _him_. You feel the blood, wet, sticky, and warm, seeping all too quickly from his skin, through his wrinkled white shirt, to your own blood stained skin and you think, “ _No, this isn’t right. There’s too much, too much. He isn’t supposed to bleed this much._ ” But he is.

You look at his face, his blue eyes, which used to puzzle and annoy the fuck out of you but now only inspire you to do better, to be a better man, his eyes which focus in and out, the lids slowly sliding downwards to close only to flutter open a few seconds later and search out something solid to lock onto. They lock onto you in an instant and the expressive brows that constantly ask you _why_ are asking you again. And while you press down on the wound, while you try to keep pressure, while you try to keep all that precious blood inside the body you’re holding, you wonder how did this happen and more importantly, why is it happening to him.

He coughs, a ragged, wet, and painful cough which makes him jerk in your grasp, his eyes shut tight, his brows and lips pulled in a grimace, and blood trickling from the left corner of his mouth to join the now clotted stream from his nose and temple. You panic slightly, taking your hand off the wound because what if you press too hard in the middle of his cough attack and hurt him even more? But before you think more on it, you’re tearing the sleeve off your long sleeve shirt and pressing it to the wound, hoping that it will be more helpful than just your hand.

“Dean,” he rasps, his eyes open, focused, and clear and on you before he grimaces again and turns his head away only to spit more blood from his mouth. He turns his head back, his eyes closed again as he takes in a deep ragged breath, one that shakes not only him but you too and you hold him a little bit tighter at that to give more stability, more purchase, more life, more of something though you’re not sure what. You open your mouth and give him a hoarse “yeah” in reply because he deserves one, deserves to know that he’s got your full attention, which you realize you should have always given him in the first place.

He smiles, it’s small and faint, only visible for a moment before he takes another deep breath and opens his eyes to look back up at you. “Sam?” he asks and the next thing you know, it’s not you that’s answering but another voice, one that you’ve memorized years ago and you look up to find your baby brother staring back at you, kneeling close, eyes filled with worry and sadness, as if he already knows how this story ends.

You look back at the angel in your arms wide eyed and scared because part of you knows it too. And your head is already filling up with thoughts, with yells, and pleas, and questions, and this can’t be’s, and oh god no’s and chants of words you never have had the courage to say out loud. Still the angel in your arms smiles again as if thankful for the second voice he hears and his eyes open to focus on someone else and not you and you think “ _No, look at me, baby, please look at me_ ,” and you’re not even sure why you’re thinking it.

“I knew it was right to have faith in you, Sam Winchester,” the angel whispers, his voice no longer the deep gravel that once grated your ears but later soothed your entire being, now something soft, and coarse, and more reminiscent to the original soul that had once been linked to the body that you hold. The angel gives a soft laugh that would have matched the louder, sad one that Sam gives in return if he wasn’t bleeding out into your hand. He’s a bit colder you realize and you fold him a bit more into you, shifting him gently in hopes of giving a bit of your own warmth as Sam gives his thanks, and the angel is looking back up at you again.

“Dean.” _Oh God_ , you think, now trembling and it’s not from the cold air that surrounds you. You press a little bit harder on the wound, desperate to keep what blood still inside in and he only presses back with what little strength he has, his hand coming to clasp your own, cold and yet generating warmth and the same time. “You-“

“Don’t Cas-“ you say, cutting him off and making him frown slightly, your voice a little bit stronger, a little bit louder. “What ever you’re gonna say just shove it, okay? Because this isn’t the end of the world, these aren’t your last moments on earth, and you are not dying. You understand?” He smiles, another faint one that holds a hint of wisdom and possible sadness though what he is sad for, you’re not sure. He says your name but you shake your head and sob a “No.” Your eyes begin to burn and you blink them angrily back because damn it you’re not going to cry because he is not going to die and this is not goodbye. “Damn it, Cas, don’t-“

“Dean.” It’s not the angel, the man in your arms but Sam who has reached out and grabbed your shoulder but you shrug him off and continue to stare down at the other him. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know you’re being stupid, you know the logical conclusion to this story and you know you should tell him everything, say your goodbye before it’s too late and you’ve lost your chance forever but there’s a bigger part of you that tells you this is wrong, that this isn’t how it ends, that this isn’t goodbye because damn it you need him and he’s yours. Has been since he grabbed you by your shirt and told you “I did it all for you,” in that gruff deep voice of his that made you tremble in a new and terrifying way. Probably been yours for a lot longer than that, maybe since he pulled you from hell but the fact is still he’s yours. He’s yours and you just got him and he’s not supposed to leave you yet, not until you’re old and wrinkled and he’s still the perfect youthful man he is.

“I’m not letting you go,” you state with conviction, force. You can tell it frightens Sam, the sound of your voice just then but you don’t really care about him now, or the people that probably now surround you, watching as bodies of innocents litter the ground around you, the vessel which once housed the brightest angel now a mass of limbs, organs, muscle, tissue, bones, and blood.

“It’s not your choice,” the angel replies, soft, understanding and beautiful. You shake your head and let one tear roll. It slips down your cheek to your chin, leaving a path of cold moisture in its wake before it drops down on the angel you’re currently holding, right onto his own cheek which you realize is wet with his own tears though why he is crying, again you’re not sure.

“No,” you shake your head and close your eyes, inhaling a stuttered breath before latching your sight back onto him. “You’re not supposed to go-“ you state, your voice becoming more distressed, more weak. “You can’t, there’s still too much I-“ You stop yourself and bite your lip as he shifts in your grasp, trying to push himself up so that he can be more level to you so even though you know he shouldn’t move, even though you know you should have yelled at Sam to go grab the damn first aid kit from the Impala ages ago, you still help him up, adjusting yourself so that your sitting down, your leg folded upwards so that he can rest his back against it as you hold your torn, blood soaked shirt to his abdomen, his hand still resting over yours, his other reaching up to caress and stroke your face. “I can’t,” you gasp, “not without you.”

“You can, and you will, just as you have done before, you will do so after.” His smile is still that strange smile, mixed of wisdom, insight, and sadness, as if he too wishes he could push back the clocks and hold time still so he could stay. You’re not sure though but part of you likes the idea, takes comfort in the fact that he might feel the same as you, that he might not want to let go either, that he might want you and need you as much as you want and need him. Because you do. You want him more than you need him, and he’s _yours_.

You shake your head while he nods his slowly, softly. Everything about him is slow and soft and cold and pale, and fading. And again you're thinking “ _No, not yet. You can’t take him yet, you can’t have him yet. He’s been yours for over two millennia, it’s my turn, he’s supposed to be mine now, he is mine now_.” But God can’t hear you, or if he can he’s not listening, hasn’t been in a long time. “You are my greatest blessing, Dean Winchester. God could not have given me a greater man than you.” You shake your head, your tears falling in earnest as you bring your free hand, the one that’s been wrapped around his shoulder, to his face, daring only because you know that this could be it, the last time you’ll ever get to touch him and have him in return feel it. “I do not regret anything and would do it all over again if given the second chance.”

“No,” you gasp, your lips quivering as you card your fingers through his hair, stopping to hold his jaw and cheek in the palm of your hand, your thumb sweeping the corner of his mouth as he nods and lets tears of his own flow freely.

“You have taught me how to feel, Dean, and for that I thank you.”

“God, Cas- _please_.” He smiles, his own hand and thumb mimicking your own, the soft pad sweeping over your bottom lip so that you shift your head slightly and kiss it because it’ll be your last chance. You gently guide his head towards yours, closing your eyes as you press your lips to his and kiss him, taste him, feel him for the first and last time. It’s soft, chaste, and sweet, not hot, passionate, or angry like you thought your first kiss with him would be, like your dreams which have plagued you for almost a full year now. But they don’t matter now, none of that matters. All that matters is him, his lips, his nose pressed to your cheek, his tears and yours mixing, seeping into yours and his mouth. 

He doesn’t pull away when you both stop, doesn’t break the contact that keeps you connected, keeps his forehead and nose pressed to yours and even though your eyes are closed you can tell he’s smiling. “Thank you,” he whispers, soft, his breath fanning across your lips. You clench your eyes tight and kiss him once more, trying to tell him everything you feel about him, trying to tell him that you love him because you know saying the words won’t be enough and partly because you know that he already knows. It’s as chaste as the last, perhaps even more so but you feel him smile against you and you know for sure that he knows. It’s the only thing you know for sure.

But it doesn’t help. Doesn’t help ease the pain of his passing. One second, he was smiling against you, his lips, nose, and being pressed against yours, matched perfectly, his right hand mirroring yours, cupping your face, the other clutching yours tightly as you still keep pressure on the wound, still trying to save him, and the next he’s gone. His left hand gone slack as his right falls to rest on your shoulder, his last breath a soft whisper across your lips.

You shut your eyes tight and hold him closer, clutching him to you, his head falling to rest in the crook of your neck as you let out a hoarse wail. The sobs that you’ve been holding back now run wild and shake your body as you rock back and forth, hugging the angel, the now empty vessel to you. You dig your fingers into his scalp, your other hand clutching his ribs, holding him to you. You scream, you cry, you curse, and you plead. You plead to the arch angels, every single one you’ve met, begging them to bring him back. You scream it in your mind and you cry it to the heavens, out loud for everyone surrounding you to hear. And when that doesn’t work, you beg God.

But God doesn’t answer and Castiel doesn’t start breathing again. And you realize that while you may have saved the world, may have kept your brother whom you love more than life itself from damnation, may have done something right for once in your damn life, none of it will be as beautiful or as wonderful without him in it. And so, instead of cursing God for not answering, you thank him for giving you the two years you had with Castiel because you figure that’s what Castiel would have wanted you to do.

End.


End file.
